


Insides

by lemmealone



Series: 100 Sherlocks [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Disturbing Themes, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-03
Updated: 2011-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-24 06:32:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/260186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemmealone/pseuds/lemmealone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His insides aren't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Insides

The distant sound of Mrs Hudson opening the door downstairs was one of the sweetest sounds John had ever heard. The text from Lestrade had only said, ‘On my way to yours now, have case photos, nasty one’. Before that, Sherlock had started to get that _look_ in his eyes: the one that meant it was only a matter of time before boredom started to endanger the furniture.

“That’ll be Lestrade, then,” he said, and Sherlock pitched him a withering glance.

“Excellent deduction,” he sneered, but he was beginning to look less like an understuffed pillow and more like himself, and the glitter in his gaze was more anticipatory than hostile. “Lestrade!” he carolled as the man in question appeared in the doorway. “You look...” he paused and drew himself upright, eyes widening. “Oh,” he said. His voice was hushed with excitement. “Oh, you’ve brought me something _shiny_ , haven’t you.”

Lestrade ran one hand roughly down the length of his face and blew out a rough, slightly rattling breath. He smelled faintly of cigarettes and old sweat, and there was a dark brown stain on his shirt collar that John fervently hoped was coffee.

“It’s a bad one,” he said simply, and held out the folder he’d been carrying under one arm. “Please. Whatever you can give us.”

Sherlock crossed the room in two strides and grabbed the folder, bypassing the notes and pulling out the glossy photographs underneath. “Why just photos?” He looked up briefly, long enough to frown at Lestrade, then back down at the pictures like he couldn’t bear to glance away. “Ah, of course. It’s all you have. The photographs _are_ the crime scene. Our killer has a creative streak - lovely! Or did he do the killing? John, come look.”

Lestrade spoke as John hoisted himself out of the armchair. “They arrived at the Yard this morning. Plain white A4 envelope, printed label, no prints. It’s with forensics now but they’ve not managed to pull anything off. No note - nothing. Just... those. Lab says they’re legit.”

“Jesus,” John breathed. “How would you even...”

The body in the pictures was emptied of all of its organs; hollowed out and bloodless, with the top of the skull cleanly removed and the torso opened with surgical exactitude.

Lestrade coughed slightly. “We’re looking at embalmers, funeral homes, anyone who could do a half decent autopsy - any walk of life where someone might eviscerate for a living.”

“Not eviscerate,” Sherlock muttered. “Not... the viscera removed, yes, obviously. But also the brain, the blood. It’s halfway to mummification.” He sounded almost greedy, John thought. Like if the corpse were there in front of them he might crawl inside with a torch for a closer look.

“Ribs separated cleanly,” he murmured. “Brain lifted, blood... did he _vacuum_ in there? Some form of suction device, like what a dentist uses. My God. It’s...”

“Horrific,” John said, and the same time Sherlock finished, “...Beautiful.”


End file.
